


I Wanna Fuck Away All My Fear

by hannibalsketches



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Thorin Lives, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Post-Battle of Five Armies, although i don't go into very much detail on that, brief mentions of Thorin, im in denial i apologize
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-14
Updated: 2015-01-14
Packaged: 2018-03-07 12:20:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3173592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannibalsketches/pseuds/hannibalsketches
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wants to kiss Thranduil, then and there, with the blood of their enemies still fresh, the soft pure flakes of snow falling all around them. He could dip the elven king in an intimate embrace, whispering his love, but what was the point?</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Wanna Fuck Away All My Fear

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LittleLynn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleLynn/gifts).



> Yeah so I've seen a good amount of gifs floating around of Thranduil's epic battle roll of his elk, and I thought to myself, What if Bard saw this? A few encouraging asks (courtesy of the ever lovely [LittleLynn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleLynn/profile) ) later, and this is birthed! I was originally going to go for smut, but it just did not happen. Instead, here is glorious angst!

As the very beginnings of battle go underway, Bard hides his children in the town hall, ignoring their cries of protest. He didn’t care if they were cross with him, as long as they were safe. Away from the dangerous visions of a battle, too harsh for their innocent eyes. They would not die this day.

The thought of safety brings him to another being, likely caught up in the throes of battle as much as he was. Thranduil.

Not that he owned the elf king. He just simply wished him alive. The town of Dale needed a powerful ally-- if they managed to survive this.

He ducks as a nasty orc tries to behead him, but he easily overthrows it, smashing it’s head into the barricaded door. The last he saw of Thranduil, the king was on the battlefield, commanding his armies towards the dwarves. The orcs here were too great in number, the men couldn’t hold them off longer.

A distant horn, loud but omniscient in its call, draws Bard’s attention from the streets and running townsfolk. The elves are approaching, and a large elk leads the pack. Bard’s heart stutters as the elven king approaches, brow furrowed and face angry, long hair blowing flawlessly in the wind. He had never seen Thranduil so beautiful.

The beauty transforms into much more as the elk charges, picking up at least a dozen orcs. Thranduil decapitates them with one fatal swing, and Bard’s mouth goes dry. He’s pulled from his haze at the animals cry of pain. It topples to the ground, taking Thranduil with it. The utter danger doesn't seem to phase him though, he merely rolls onward, stopping at a crouch, being surrounded by orcs. He bows his head in silence for a split moment, Bard thinks it’s likely for his fallen mount. He moves to help his ally, but Thranduil swiftly kills the foul creatures, in a graceful effortlessness. The king approaches him, a coy smirk on his features. The elf is out of breath, but doesn’t show it.

“Are you surprised, bowman? Thought I was just a pretty face?”

He breaks out into a full smile, and Bard can feel his stomach hitch at the gesture. He wants to kiss it off the kings face, devour his mouth.

_Easy there, you still have a war to fight._

He shakes the arousal to the back of his mind, and smiles back, as lucid as he can manage.

“Nay. Though,” He pauses, to slice the stomach of a nearby vermin. “I’ll admit I’m jealous your hair has managed to stay untangled.

Thranduil laughs, such a strange sound among the pitiful cries of death and pain.

They start a dance of some sorts, guarding each other with every step, but fluidly moving to slay the enemy. They reach the edge of the clearing, and Bard is left practically panting. He squats down to rest for a bit.

“Thorin is fighting.”

That draws Bard on his feet again. He squints his eyes, and indeed sees the dwarf, riding towards Ravenhill, atop a ram. Three others follow him.

“It seems he’s finally come to his senses.”

Beside him, Thranduil hums in agreement, watching the King Under the Mountain with a careful, calculated gaze. He turns suddenly, an elven soldier rushing forward.

“Your highness, our armies are ready.”

Thranduil nods.

“Ready? For what?”

The king turns to him, wearing the same unreadable expression as the moment they met. Bard hates it, hates being pushed back.

“I’m leaving. Too much unnecessary blood has been shed.”

For what was he, a simple bargeman with a stroke of luck, to an elven king?

“Oh.”

Thranduil approaches him, the tiniest bit of sorrow on his face-- or was Bard imagining things?

“If you should find yourself alive when this is over, know that the city of Dale is welcome to form an alliance with Mirkwood.”

Bard’s gaping again, pushing back tears because of course. This game they had played was all a ploy for Thranduil to further his wealth, he was wrong to even hope the elven king thought of him in such a way. He was a filthy mortal, doomed to die within a small fraction of Thranduil’s long life.

He wants to kiss Thranduil, then and there, with the blood of their enemies still fresh, the soft pure flakes of snow falling all around them. He could dip the elven king in an intimate embrace, whispering his love, but what was the point? Thranduil did not yearn for him.

Bard gruffs his farewell, too afraid of his own mouth to say a proper goodbye. The tears are hot against his cheek as he watches Thranduil turn around, staggering off into the ruin, untouched and beautiful. Its a pain similar to when the healers told him there was nothing to be done about his wife, and if that doesn’t cut him down further, then he must be just as heartless as the elf king himself.

-

The battle itself is hard, and almost lost until a cavalry of eagles and a skin-changer save them. There are losses, yes, but Bard has much to be thankful for. His children are alive and well.

The dwarves prove their resilience by pulling through. Thorin suffers the worst, but aside from scarring, he will heal.

The air is still thick with innocent blood, but the weight has been lifted from it. Bard walks among the rubble and frozen orc bodies.

He is grateful, yes, but still an ache stirs deep in his chest. Bard knows its pointless to quell it, but let it fester in his chest, filling him with pain that can only be cured by ale, or good sex. Even then, its still temporary, and although he has been offered, he cannot say yes to those who seek to reward him with flesh.

He has spoiled himself on the elven king.

Everyone else seems dim, lifeless against  the star he once called friend.

Its only been a few hours, and already Bard feels like a bitter old man, tough but soft all the same, too lost in lost things to pay attention to the world around him.  He crumbles to the ground, shoulders heaving and shuddering with unshed tears. There is no will in his heart to cry any more. No light in his soul.

Bard supposes its some cruel trick being played upon him, to allow a love so fierce and fast it burns up. All he was now was a pile of ash, ready to scatter at the next brush of wind.  

He cannot, though. There is still a city to rebuild, generations to make proud, and babes to feed. He is needed, regardless if his insides are blacker than coal.

"Bard?"

The bowman looks up in a start, into the eyes of Thranduil. He doesn't speak, half in fear of ruining the vision with a careless tongue. It doesn't stop the king from sitting beside him, the stony wall from earlier now gone, replaced with the surprisingly readable face of the elf he had grown to love.

"Are you alright? Are your children---?"

Bard can hear the concern in his tone, and isn't that an odd thing? He manages a wheezing voice to answer before the elf drew to conclusion.

"All of my children are fine. How fares your son?"

"Legolas is fine. He...left me. Left the kingdom."

"I am sorry." Bard offers the empty statement, not wanting to imagine his Sigrid grown and on her own like that. Thranduil merely shrugs.

"He has his own path to carve."

A cool silence invades the air around them. Yes, a war has happened, but good prevailed, and those needed most were relatively unharmed. It still does little to soothe the ache between them, the unspoken truth that Thranduil had hurt Bard.

"Why did you come back?"

The king seems older as he stretches out stiff muscles, looking more feline than elf. He turns to look at Bard, but the bowman feels he must turn away.

"Oddly enough, Legolas persuaded me. "

At this, Bard raises his eyes--but they quickly dart down upon seeing the ethereal icy blue of the elf's. Thranduil stands smoothly, but Bard can see the strain of his spine from the load of sweat, blood, and used armor.

"I've learned a valuable lesson today. And here I stood before, believing I had learned all the knowledge in Middle Earth. "

Its Bards turn to rise now, and he does so, but doesn't dare get closer to the king.

"What have you learned?"

Thranduil visibly breaks, just a fraction, a slight drop in the shoulders, but Bard catches it.

"My guard captain, she....loved another, not in our race. At first, I could not understand."

He knows the elf is speaking of Tauriel. Sigrid had breathlessly told him of all the warrior had done, including her saving of one of Thorin's nephews.  Everyone knew the deep hatred and shame the elves had for interracial affairs.  Perhaps the selfless love she had shown was solidifying for Thranduil, securing his distaste for Bard.

"And now?"

The world seems to fade away in the silence that follows.  Bards heart is a heavy bang against his chest, his senses are pinpoints in anticipation of the answer. He hopes little, only dreads the harsh words that were sure to spill from the kings mouth.

"Perhaps there was naivety in me. Maybe love doesn't have a rhyme or reason."

"Perhaps love can happen unexpectedly."

Bard immediately regrets his words. Thranduil tenses, turning to look at him with such crumbling pain it nearly guts the bowman. He seems lost, offended at Bard. It’s then that the dragonslayer comes to revelation.

Bard will not take the words back. For once, he is right, and he knows what the details entail. He has fought too hard to be afraid of love, even if the elven king will still deny him, the emotion is still there. He would not cower as Thranduil did.

"My king?"

The two turn sharply, their swiftness visibly jarring the guard that had approached.

“I um- hate to interrupt, but your presence is needed in the healing tents.” The lithe elf stands expectantly, and Thranduil sighs from beside Bard. He cannot meet the bowman’s eyes, and it angers Bard greatly.

He leaves again.

-

That night, as the ale runs thick in the blood of those survived, and lamentful glee bounces off the walls of Dale, Bard scourges. He manages to avoid the multiplied incomings of even more villagers, instead seeking out the elven camp outside the borders. His fear was still present, but a new quest kept his feet on a steady, even course. There was a conversation to be had with the King of Mirkwood.

Thranduil is seated at his makeshift throne when Bard enters, his head down, propped in pale hands. The golden silky hair is a curtain around his face.

“We need to talk.”

The elf looks up, and Bard’s heart nearly breaks. Thranduil’s eyes are irritated and shining, pink and puffy with tears. Bard approaches him quickly, kneeling down, furrowing his brow, question in his face. He had never thought to see the king so thoroughly debauched, and only dreamed of it in intimate terms. This was all wrong.

“What do you wish me to tell you, bowman?” Bard places a shaking hand on the elfs folded arm.

“Tell me why you weep, as though you are utterly alone.”

“I am….afraid.”  Thranduil looks up, his eyes now ridiculously blue against the soft red. The kings face is contorted in pain that Bard reflects. “Afraid of this ache I ignore when you are near me. It has grown too strong-- it consumes me.”

“Speak it then. Do not insult it’s beauty with a foul title. Say what it is, Thranduil, give life to it.”

The king sobs slightly, reaching forward with weak hands to weave about thick brown locks. He collapses into Bard’s arms, pressing his forehead until it meets the mortals. He sniffs, such an odd, almost ridiculous thing.

“I love you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to drop me some kind words! 
> 
> Off to work on my FairyTale AU!


End file.
